Most men can't make it through even five words of what I'm about to tell you by Nicole Carlson Page B
Authors: Nicole Carlson
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even get out of my truck.
I asked, "Any monsters in there?"
"I wasn't paying attention. I got wrapped up in a movie. I'm going home. I left the crossbow."
"Well, thanks for watching the place."
"Sure. Hey, I think something got into your fridge because all of that leftover pizza is gone now."
I pushed through the front door, threw my keys on the table, glanced at the answering machine and saw I had no
messages. A little surprised Amy hadn't called. I surveyed the room, the lamp inside the front door raising an island of
light in the dim little house. Nothing stirred.
I went toward the kitchen, casting sideways glances along the way. Something flew across the big window in the living
room and I gave a start. Probably a bird, though. I see owls around here from time to time. Molly was asleep on my couch.
I flipped on the kitchen light, opened all the cabinets, saw nothing hiding in there. Not much food, either. I tried the freezer, found no monster hiding in there, either. I did find a box of Hot Pockets, little frozen pastries with meat and cheese inside
them. It's the kind of food they feed to prisoners of war to keep them alive.
I took one step toward the microwave, and stopped. A shadow had moved on the floor. Not my own, either.
The dark shape grew, up over the drawers to my left, spilling onto the counter top.
I had time to notice the shadow had no left hand. It spoke.
"Hey."
I spun, saw pale skin and freckles and red hair.
"Amy!"
"John came and got me while you were at work. It was supposed to be a surprise. Oh my god, you look terrible!"
"I know! Amy, you should have stayed aw-"
My words were interrupted by Amy throwing her arms around my ribs, squeezing like she was trying to deflate me. I
hissed in pain. The construction worker may wel have cracked a rib there.
"John told me what happened! Isn't that crazy? What was he saying about the-"
Amy was interrupted by my pul ing her shirt over her head.
"-the turkeys, what was with that?"
"I don't know, I don't know," I said, working the zipper on her pants. "It's been a crazy 24 hours."
"I heard they brought in that detective, the one who works all those serial killer cases? The guy who's always doing the
interviews on Court TV? What's his name?"
We were both naked by the time she made it to the question mark.
* * * * *
"What was that guy's name?" she asked again, an hour later. "The detective?"
I was half asleep, curled up against her in the bed, Amy in the sweats and T-shirt she wore as pajamas.
"Falconer."
"That's right. John says you guys talked to him."
"Mmmm Hmmm."
"Do you think he'l want to talk to me?"
"Why would he?"
"I don't know. Because I know you. I don't know."
"Well, if he does, he does."
"And there's not anything I should tell him? Or not tell him?"
"We're telling him the truth. Wel , not the truth, you know, but the truth the way we tel it to people. You know what I mean."
"Okay."
I closed my eyes.
"David?"
"Hmmmmm?"
"Do you ever wish you didn't know any of this? Like if you could just erase it from your brain so you'd be like everybody
else?"
"Sure. Actual y... no. Because if somebody came along and offered me the chance, like if they told me if I took a certain
pill I could make it al go away, I wouldn't do it. I'd be afraid the good stuff would go away, too. Like maybe I imagined al
of it but then maybe I imagined you, too."
"I'm not saying you imagined it all, obviously."
"That's exactly what you would say, if you also were imaginary."
"All right, go to sleep."
"Hey, you started it."
Silence. I drifted off.
"I have this class," she said, "on Social Psychology. And the guy who teaches it, he said the amount of the universe a human can experience is statistically, like, zero percent. You've got this huge universe, trillions of tril ions of miles of
empty space between galaxies, and all a human can perceive is a little tunnel a few feet wide and a few feet long in front
of our eyes. So he says we don't
I asked, "Any monsters in there?"
"I wasn't paying attention. I got wrapped up in a movie. I'm going home. I left the crossbow."
"Well, thanks for watching the place."
"Sure. Hey, I think something got into your fridge because all of that leftover pizza is gone now."
I pushed through the front door, threw my keys on the table, glanced at the answering machine and saw I had no
messages. A little surprised Amy hadn't called. I surveyed the room, the lamp inside the front door raising an island of
light in the dim little house. Nothing stirred.
I went toward the kitchen, casting sideways glances along the way. Something flew across the big window in the living
room and I gave a start. Probably a bird, though. I see owls around here from time to time. Molly was asleep on my couch.
I flipped on the kitchen light, opened all the cabinets, saw nothing hiding in there. Not much food, either. I tried the freezer, found no monster hiding in there, either. I did find a box of Hot Pockets, little frozen pastries with meat and cheese inside
them. It's the kind of food they feed to prisoners of war to keep them alive.
I took one step toward the microwave, and stopped. A shadow had moved on the floor. Not my own, either.
The dark shape grew, up over the drawers to my left, spilling onto the counter top.
I had time to notice the shadow had no left hand. It spoke.
"Hey."
I spun, saw pale skin and freckles and red hair.
"Amy!"
"John came and got me while you were at work. It was supposed to be a surprise. Oh my god, you look terrible!"
"I know! Amy, you should have stayed aw-"
My words were interrupted by Amy throwing her arms around my ribs, squeezing like she was trying to deflate me. I
hissed in pain. The construction worker may wel have cracked a rib there.
"John told me what happened! Isn't that crazy? What was he saying about the-"
Amy was interrupted by my pul ing her shirt over her head.
"-the turkeys, what was with that?"
"I don't know, I don't know," I said, working the zipper on her pants. "It's been a crazy 24 hours."
"I heard they brought in that detective, the one who works all those serial killer cases? The guy who's always doing the
interviews on Court TV? What's his name?"
We were both naked by the time she made it to the question mark.
* * * * *
"What was that guy's name?" she asked again, an hour later. "The detective?"
I was half asleep, curled up against her in the bed, Amy in the sweats and T-shirt she wore as pajamas.
"Falconer."
"That's right. John says you guys talked to him."
"Mmmm Hmmm."
"Do you think he'l want to talk to me?"
"Why would he?"
"I don't know. Because I know you. I don't know."
"Well, if he does, he does."
"And there's not anything I should tell him? Or not tell him?"
"We're telling him the truth. Wel , not the truth, you know, but the truth the way we tel it to people. You know what I mean."
"Okay."
I closed my eyes.
"David?"
"Hmmmmm?"
"Do you ever wish you didn't know any of this? Like if you could just erase it from your brain so you'd be like everybody
else?"
"Sure. Actual y... no. Because if somebody came along and offered me the chance, like if they told me if I took a certain
pill I could make it al go away, I wouldn't do it. I'd be afraid the good stuff would go away, too. Like maybe I imagined al
of it but then maybe I imagined you, too."
"I'm not saying you imagined it all, obviously."
"That's exactly what you would say, if you also were imaginary."
"All right, go to sleep."
"Hey, you started it."
Silence. I drifted off.
"I have this class," she said, "on Social Psychology. And the guy who teaches it, he said the amount of the universe a human can experience is statistically, like, zero percent. You've got this huge universe, trillions of tril ions of miles of
empty space between galaxies, and all a human can perceive is a little tunnel a few feet wide and a few feet long in front
of our eyes. So he says we don't
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